


Unofficial Surveillance

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Fic, First Time, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's a little surveillance between friends?</p><p>Spoilers for 1.09 Bad Judgment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unofficial Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sage for being a beta rockstar and mergatrude for sparkly encouragement.

1.

"He's stalking you?" Jenna sounded distinctly unimpressed. "That's not cute, Elizabeth!"

"It's not stalking, exactly," said Elizabeth. She pulled the lace curtain aside and looked out the window at the dark unmarked vehicle across the street. It was tempting to wave, but she repressed the impulse and went to lean on the counter instead, glass of wine in one hand, while her roommate cooked dinner. "He's just watching me. I think he wants to make sure I'm not seeing anyone."

"It's a power trip. He's with the FBI so he can do whatever he wants." Jenna kept stirring the vegetables in the wok while she reached over and took the rice out of the microwave. "He's probably one of those guys who thinks that if you're a single woman, you must be desperate and you'll go out with the first guy who asks."

"He's not one of those guys." Elizabeth handed her the paprika from the spice rack and took a sip of Riesling. "He's just shy or something. I like him."

"You don't know anything about him," said Jenna. She gave the vegetables a generous sprinkling of paprika and handed the rest back. Then she stopped cooking and actually looked at Elizabeth, her gaze so sharp that El had to look away. "You're too soft-hearted, babe, and far too trusting. He could be a psycho. Besides, what about Rico?"

"Rico's in love with his thesis supervisor," said Elizabeth. "And I want to date a grown-up. You know, someone who lives in the real world."

"But an FBI agent? Really?" Jenna sighed. "They're all slaves to the establishment. You're out of your mind." She served their dinner and they sat down at the tiny table in their kitchenette to eat.

After two mouthfuls, Jenna looked up with a gleam. "You know what you should do?"

"No," said Elizabeth, preemptively. "Whatever it is. No. I know that look."

"You should return the favor," Jenna continued, undaunted. "If it's okay for him to stalk you, then vice versa."

"I—" Elizabeth paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. It wasn't such a bad idea. If Agent Burke was in the process of learning everything he could about her, it was only fair that she find out about him too. "All right. Call me V.I. Warshawski."

So Elizabeth started sneaking around, trying to get to the bottom of the enigma that was Peter Burke. She took photos of him eating his brown-bag lunch in the park, three days in a row, always with his nose buried in a spy thriller. She stood outside his apartment the night he didn't follow her home and caught glimpses of him in the living-room window. It looked like he was arguing with his roommate. Elizabeth wished she had a directional microphone or—even better—that she'd been able to bug him.

She had a feeling he knew what she was doing, but he didn't say anything or try to stop her. And the more she saw of his life, the more she wanted to step into it. During the investigation at the gallery, he was gruff with his colleagues, and they seemed to respect him but they weren't really friendly. Peter had a lot of people in his life, but he also seemed alone, like someone who really needed a hug.

He interviewed her twice more about the robbery and mentioned an Italian restaurant a couple of times, but he never actually made a move. And he was still watching her, mostly from a distance.

Elizabeth thought about it on her way to work. She didn't want to just ask him out herself—he'd probably get flustered and say no, even if he didn't mean to. She was going to have to give him a hint. She turned the corner and stopped abruptly. An FBI van was at the curb, and men and women in bullet-proof vests with guns held high—just like in the movies—were pouring out of it and into her little gallery.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the macho display and came closer to see what was happening. A loud crack shook the air, and the gallery window crumpled into a pile of glittering sharp shards, sending Elizabeth reeling back in alarm. Through the space where the window had been, she could see FBI agents handcuffing the gallery owner, Richard Carnegie.

"What's happening?" she said out loud, though no one was paying her any attention.

"Suspect is secure," barked one of the agents.

And then Peter Burke was at Elizabeth's side. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Elizabeth leaned on a parked car and waited for her pulse to slow down. "I'm fine. I've just never seen a plate glass window fall apart like that before. What happened?"

Peter looked over his shoulder at the police cars pulling up and then back to Elizabeth. "Carnegie opened fire, and—"

"Wait, Richard had a gun in the gallery?" Elizabeth pushed off from the car and stood up, her shock turning to indignation. "Richard had a _gun_?" She brushed past Peter and stormed over to the agents who were bundling Richard into a police car. "You brought a gun into my place of work? What were you thinking, Richard? You stole the DiBasso, didn't you? You were behind this all along. I trusted you!"

"Elizabeth, I would never have hurt you," said Richard.

She glared at him. "I was standing right here when you shot out the window. You could have shot me." The realization hit as she said it. "Oh my God, you could have shot me!"

Strong hands closed around her shoulders, pulling her away. It was Peter Burke. "There's an EMT waiting to check you over," he said, and he guided her toward a woman near the ambulance. She didn't see him again for the rest of the day.

The next day, Elizabeth's patience was exhausted. The gallery was a mess. Artists and clients kept calling for news. And no doubt Peter would have other cases about to draw on his time. She had to do something. She went to the back room of the gallery, found a sheet of posterboard and wrote in large block capitals: I ♥ ITALIAN. When she went to the café next door for lunch, she took it with her, waited until she was pretty sure he was watching, and then held it up in the window.

It worked.

 

2.

Neal put Kate's origami flower on the bookshelf next to the bottle. He was still a little worried about her, but mostly he couldn't resist a good mystery.

Mozzie had followed him in and was standing in the center of the room, arms folded, obviously bursting with information to impart.

Neal ignored him as long as he could—about a minute and a half—and then gave in. "What?"

Mozzie didn't even prevaricate. He produced a small radio receiver from his pocket and handed it over. "The Suit can see your tracking data whenever he wants. It's only fair that you should get to see his inner workings, too."

"Moz, what did you do?" Neal looked from the receiver to Moz and back again. "You didn't—"

"I bugged the dog." Mozzie looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

Neal stared. "You bugged Satchmo? Moz! Peter hired you as a cleaner!"

"I found and destroyed half a dozen FBI-issue bugs. And planted one of my own." Mozzie shrugged nonchalantly, and Neal shook his head in despair. "You'll thank me when you find out how much they know that you know. They have billions of dollars of government resources at their command. You have, what, a fifty-dollar bug and a hundred-and-ninety-dollar signal booster. It's not even a drop in the water. It's not even homeopathy."

"This is ridiculous," said Neal. He put the receiver on the dining table and went to make coffee. But later, after he'd beaten Mozzie at chess and Mozzie was snoring out his defeat on the couch, Neal took the receiver and a pair of headphones and retreated to bed. Just to see if Mozzie had really done what he said he had.

"—nearly done there, honey?" came Elizabeth's voice, so clear that Neal started and looked around, half expecting to see her. This was a fifty-dollar bug? He turned down the volume.

"I just wish I knew what Fowler was up to," said Peter.

"You'll figure it out." Elizabeth was fainter now. "I'm thinking of introducing Mozzie to Jenna. What do you think?"

"Your old roommate?" Peter still sounded distracted. "Isn't she a lesbian?"

"She's bi," said Elizabeth, "and I just—I get the feeling she and Moz would hit it off."

"I'm not sure which of them I should be feeling sorrier for." There was a long pause, and when they started talking again, they were both quieter, further away. Neal had to strain to catch what they were saying. He turned the volume up again. "El, what are we going to do?"

"About Neal? What can we do?" Elizabeth's voice was soft, and Neal's breath caught at the intimacy of it: the Burkes alone in their home, talking about him in the middle of the night. It didn't sound like work talk. Neal lay back on his bed, closed his eyes and eavesdropped shamelessly.

"You said he's still keeping secrets from you," said Elizabeth, "and as long as he doesn't trust us, we can't—"

"I know," Peter interrupted, and Neal swore under his breath. He really wanted to know what it was they couldn't do. "Dammit," Peter continued, "I really thought we'd got somewhere after that boiler room case, but—"

"It's not just about whether he trusts you, honey. You know that."

"It isn't?"

"It's about whether he wants to trust you. Whether he wants to—"

A violent explosive thumping drowned out everything else. Neal sat bolt upright, ripped off the headphones and flung them onto the bedspread, wincing. He leaned forward, heart pounding from the shock, then snatched up the headphones again, turned the volume right down and cautiously brought them back to his ears. He needed to hear the rest of this conversation, even if it deafened him. Even if he had no right to be listening.

"—fitting into our lives, but he has to want to. Do you think Satchmo has fleas? He keeps scratching his neck," he heard Elizabeth say clearly, and after a moment, the dull rasp of fingers on the bug. "Honey, what's this?"

There was silence. Neal winced again, this time imagining Peter's expression.

"Is it Fowler?" asked Elizabeth.

One short, furious syllable. "No."

"Moz wouldn't—" Elizabeth sounded more confused than indignant. "I gave him pâté!"

"He would, without a second's hesitation." Peter sounded grim. "The question is whether Neal's in on it. If he is, I'll kill him. _Do you hear me, Caffrey?_"

Neal sat up again, and then blinked when Elizabeth laughed and said, "Well, that's progress, at least."

"What are you talking about?" Peter's anger was tinged with confusion.

"A month ago, you'd have said, 'I'm sending him back to jail!'"

"Homicide is progress? Sometimes I worry about you, El." But Peter sounded like his temper was abating.

"You know what I mean," she said. "Neal, honey, if you're listening, maybe you should reconsider the wisdom of spying on your friends. You know what they say about eavesdroppers."

"If he's listening," repeated Peter, sounding horrified. "Oh God."

Neal got off the bed, found his phone and slipped out onto the patio without waking Mozzie. The phone rang twice before Peter picked up.

"It's late," said Neal, trying for nonchalance. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Neal, do you want to explain to me why there is a bug on my dog?" There was steel in Peter's voice, but it was mixed with panic.

"It wasn't my idea," said Neal, quickly.

"But you knew about it."

"After the fact."

Peter blew out a loud breath. "Have you been listening in on the private conversations of me and my wife? Don't lie to me, Neal."

Neal looked down. In the shadows of the patio, his tracker blinked on off on off. "Come on, Peter. What's a little surveillance between friends? You had Elizabeth under surveillance before you asked her out. And you can see my tracking data any time you want."

"That's not the same—"

"I know." Neal took a deep silent breath and in a split second, decided to bet everything on a roll of the dice. "Maybe I wanted to make sure you weren't seeing anyone else."

"Neal—"

"I want in, Peter." Neal turned his back on the billion dollar view and leaned his shoulders against the concrete parapet, the cold biting through the cotton of his t-shirt proof this was really happening. "I want to want in."

"How do I know you're not just taking advantage of an opportunity?" asked Peter. "How do I know this isn't part of some scam you're pulling with your little friend?"

"You don't," said Neal. "I guess you'll have to trust me."

Peter didn't answer. Neal could practically hear him arguing it out in his head, wanting to believe Neal, but unable to let himself.

"Peter, let me talk to Elizabeth."

"Why?" said Peter, immediately suspicious.

"Just let me."

There was some muffled conversation—Peter must have put his hand over the mouthpiece—and then Elizabeth came on the line. "Hello, Neal."

Her voice warmed and steadied him. Reassured him that this was okay, it was right, it was the real deal. "Elizabeth," he said, not hiding anything. "Tell me what you want. Because whatever it is, I want you to have it. I want to give it to you."

"That's easy," she said. "I want you to stop driving my husband crazy."

Neal's hopes screeched to a halt. He let his head fall forward and swallowed his disappointment. "I'll do my best." The tracker blinked on off on off. "Anything else?"

"You won't be able to," said Elizabeth. "And yeah, there's something else. I want you to stop driving me crazy, too."

"I—" Disappointment flipped over into hope again. "What if I can't?"

"If you can't," said Elizabeth softly, "then I want you to get a cab _now_, and get yourself over here. Because this is not the kind of conversation we should be having over an unsecured line."

Neal swallowed. "Twenty minutes. Half an hour at most."

"We'll be here."

"Will you protect me if Peter tries to kill me?"

She laughed. "Just hurry."

 

3.

Peter was pacing, had been pacing for twenty-three minutes, while El sat on the couch watching him, occasionally trying to start a conversation. Peter didn't have any energy for conversing right now. Neal was on his way over. Neal was on his way over with intent. Probably.

Either that or Fowler was going to bash in the door and arrest him for inappropriate conduct.

Peter's hands were sweaty—he rubbed them on his pants.

A car pulled up outside and a few seconds later a car door closed, and Peter was at the front door before Neal could ring the bell. "Get in here," he said, grabbing Neal's arm and dragging him inside. "God help us if Fowler's people are watching."

"They'll think we're working a case or that I've come to confess about something," said Neal, staying in Peter's space, looking up at him with that piercing blue gaze that always made Peter want to either kiss him or shake him, sometimes both at once. "This is hardly my first late-night visit to your house, Peter."

"Right." Peter stepped back, since Neal apparently wasn't going to, and since nothing was going to happen just inside the front door or they'd have to answer to El. "Come on, then."

Neal slipped out of his coat and gave it to Peter to hang up. He was gone when Peter turned around again. Already greeting Elizabeth, clasping both her hands and murmuring something in a low voice that made her blush.

Peter felt a complicated mix of jealousy and relief, and cleared his throat. "Coffee?"

"I'm good." Neal looked bright-eyed and alert, and Peter ignored his fear that this was all part of a con that would end in disaster and bankruptcy, and took a step forward, letting this reality take over, the one where Neal knew what he and El wanted and wanted it too.

El gave him an encouraging smile and turned back to Neal, still holding both his hands in hers. "So, Neal, I guess now the question is what do you want, and can we give it to you?"

"That's actually two—"

"Don't," El interrupted. "Leave the pedantry at the door. Please?"

Neal pulled an apologetic face and then sobered. "I want you to want me." His eyes were on El, but Peter knew he was talking to both of them.

"Oh, honey," said El, moving closer.

Neal looked past her to Peter. "I want you to trust me."

"Caffrey—" Peter didn't know what to say to that. He knew Neal too well. Knowing him meant knowing that he lied and kept secrets and couldn't resist the frequent opportunities for hijinks that seemed to inevitably arise.

El came to the rescue. "Neal, Peter doesn't trust anyone. He had me under surveillance too, remember? That's why we have a policy of full disclosure in our marriage—because otherwise he'd be snooping around checking my eBay bids."

"But—" started Neal.

"About that—" said Peter, uncomfortably.

El kept talking over both of them. "It doesn't mean he doesn't love you—or me. It's just how he is."

Peter put his hands on his hips. "I'm pretty sure I'm not as psychologically disturbed as you're making me out to be."

El and Neal both raised their eyebrows at him, with matching expressions of fond skepticism.

Peter sighed and scratched his jaw. "I'm doing my best," he told Neal.

"Under severe provocation." The skepticism was gone, replaced with understanding and humor. And that gaze again.

Peter stepped forward involuntarily. "So, are you going to make a move and kiss one of us, or are we going to stand around all night feeling awkward?"

"He's a romantic," Neal murmured to El.

"He's Peter," she said, simply.

Neal's answering smile was directed at El, but it drew Peter another step forward nonetheless.

Neal bent his head so his mouth was barely an inch from El's. "He's pretty amazing," he said.

"He is." El leaned in to Neal, and their lips met, soft and lush in the lamplight. Peter was mesmerized. El cupped the back of Neal's head, and they moved further into the kiss, pressing against each other.

Neal moaned low in his throat and touched El's face, her neck, ran his hands down her back, wrinkling her blouse and bringing her even closer, and for a moment, Peter thought they'd forgotten him. Then Neal pulled back, breathing hard, still holding El. "So are you."

He looked sideways at Peter, eyes dark but wary, clearly unsure if he'd gone too far. Peter couldn't have kept his distance if he'd tried. He moved in, put his hand on Neal's cheek and kissed him hard and desperate, forgetting all the times he and El had agreed that Neal had to make the first move, that it was important Neal made the decision of his own free will. Peter didn't try to come between Neal and El, didn't want to separate them, but he needed to taste him, to connect.

Neal responded at once, without any hesitation, and Peter surrendered everything, aware only of Neal's kiss and of El pressed against his side, her arm around his waist.

Neal took Peter's hand and squeezed it as he leaned back, and Peter broke off slowly, reluctantly. He felt as if his world had been turned upside-down, thrown into chaos, and El and Neal were the only points he could rely on.

Neal's throat moved as he swallowed, and his voice was unsteady. "Tell me what you want."

"Isn't it obvious?" Peter met his gaze.

El's hand moved on his back, and she murmured, "Peter."

Peter gave in to the reproof. "I want you," he told Neal. "I want you to stay." He closed his eyes, feeling embarrassed and painfully exposed. "With us. And you and El—" He took a breath and opened his eyes again, looked from Neal to El and back to Neal, both of them beautiful and understanding and _his_, and he admitted what they already knew. "I want to watch."

 

END


End file.
